"Little girl, will you tell me the truth?" he asked. "Do I look like
the old Derwent Conniston, YOUR Derwent Conniston? Do I?"
Her voice was small and troubled, yet the pain was slowly fading out of
her eyes as she felt the passionate embrace of his fingers in her hair.
"No. You are changed."
"Yes, I am changed. A part of Derwent Conniston died seven years ago.
That part of him was dead until he came through that door tonight and
saw you. And then it flickered back into life. It is returning slowly,
slowly. That which was dead is beginning to rouse itself, beginning to
remember. See, little Mary Josephine. It was this!"
He drew a hand to his forehead and placed a finger on the scar. "I got
that seven years ago. It killed a half of Derwent Conniston, the part
that should have lived. Do you understand? Until tonight--"
Her eyes startled him, they were growing so big and dark and staring,
living fires of understanding and horror. It was hard for him to go on
with the lie. "For many weeks I was dead," he struggled on. "And when I
came to life physically, I had forgotten a great deal. I had my name,
my identity, but only ghastly dreams and visions of what had gone
before.
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